There Are No Boundaries
by One Wish Magic
Summary: What is friendship but another kind of love? And what friendship blurs the lines more then Adam and Tommy's? During the Glam-nation tour and beyond the boundaries are stripped away as the boys learn things about each other and themselves. A series of one-shots, not chronological
1. He Pushes Himself Too Hard

**So I fell in love with Adam Lambert and Tommy Joe Ratliff, which then inclined me to write, and here's the result :)**

**This is a friendship fic, but considering this is Adam and Tommy's freindship, there's a lot of lee-way, and more than enough for hints of Adommy if that's how you want to read it :) I think I'm in the mood for a little angst lately.**

**This was written very sporadically inbetween uni work and essays, so not my usual drafted and redrafted form, a little rougher. I could call artistic choice, but it isn't :') I've smoothed it over, so hopefully it should flow. There's more where this came from, so hope you like. **

* * *

_He Pushes Himself Too Hard …_

* * *

With three days to the paramount performance, it was blood, sweat and tears with no semantics, and the band was feeling the strain.

Monday nights MTV appearance marked their make or break debute; their chance to prove, as an emerging sound, that they could stand up and hold their own in the temperamental music industry.

And they were five figures who knew the score. Part of different ensembles and different dreams, they had chased fame before, with varying degrees of success. But this time was different, because they actually believed in what they were doing, because they knew this empty studio was as transit as a stepping stone into something spectacular, and not the epitome of a static career. They had worked too long and too hard to be ignored, but they were busking in an era when even talent was no guarantee of success.

Chances came so seldom and failure wasn't an option, therefore, a tireless regime of rehearsals had been instated – god knew how long ago now – meaning exhaustion was kicking in, like a bad hangover without even the redemption of the night before. And as the frenzy reached fever pitch, one among their number particularly was about to discover what happened when a man tried to bare the weight of the world.

While stoicism was a great defence, it was all too often a dangerous play. And in an endeavour such as this, where strangers had to learn to band together as a family, weaknesses were all too often taken for granted ...

The studio lights were hot; transformed from a comforting presence to a violent supernova baring down, soaking them with their own perspiration even as they dried slowly into husks. Calloused fingers bled ceaselessly from the effort of repeating riffs and power chords upon stings which had taken on the more merciless qualities of barbed wire. Muscles ached from prolonged expenditure, making everyday actions a wrench. And voices broke from the intensity of demand, were repaired overnight with a drought of honey and lemon, only to suffer the same pains again in the morrow.

But every agony was a thousand times worth it, because the sound they produced was immense. There were no short cuts to good music. You had to give your soul to get anything back.

The sound of the guitars faded out, and Adam stamped his foot, frustrated at falling flat of the note he needed to hit, seven hours in. He grabbed a bottle of water and drank it down in one, before clearing his throat loudly. That was all the interim they had.

"From the top," he called again.

They steeled themselves for a fifth consecutive rendition of ' If I Had You,' determined to end on a high after various mistakes of fatigue. Like many things, performance was a mindset which could not be replicated in less intense circumstances than itself. And, furthermore, part took of the old irony that, at the epitome of practice and looming public appearance, skill and competency, both, took a discrediting dive south into doubt.

_ "So I got my boots on, got the right amount of leather,_

_ and they're doing me up with a black colour liner."_

Venteren members, all of them, the band struggled on without complaint, seeing each agony only as a certification of their success; the demanded price, which they willingly extolled. While they played together, reacting as one, their minds stood alone, retreating to a plain within themselves from where they could draw focus and strength.

But he couldn't do it – not today.

Already the weak link – or so he assumed - he falsely took their grim-set determination for strength, even as they took his, and he didn't want to be the one to demonstrate fallibility.

Hired in a capacity which was completely novel to him, he already thought he had to work twice as hard to equal them. But day by day, the truth became more undeniable; he couldn't keep this up. Something, somewhere, had to give.

_ "All we need in this world is some love."_

Tommy Joe Ratliff felt like hell, and no exaggeration. His heart pounded in sympathy with the beat, too fast, bruising the inside of his ribcage; painful to breath. His vision swam, distended and swayed; in a surreal technicolour reality which boasted no rules. Movement made it worse. Blinking made it worse. Everything made it worse. He felt sick, but worse than that, he actually felt his stomach turn over, rising with each pulsation of the tempo until he was periodically swallowing down bile.

He hadn't slept more than four hours in the past week, insomnia setting in, in the wake of trepidation, as it always did, until he found himself sitting, at three in the morning, with his bass in hand, wondering how everything had come to this. To make things worse, he had skipped breakfast this morning too – which hindsight told him was a mistake – leaving him feeling distinctly like one of the walking un-dead.

Even while he burned under the heat of the spotlights, he felt shivery and weak.

With each sensation combined; it was the most horrible feeling in the world; like being trapped inside a crumbling version of yourself, and riding the destruction down.

He had faced exhaustion before; running on empty fumes and grit, but had always pulled himself back at the precipice. This time, though, he knew there would be no coming back, his self abuse was too protracted. He would play on until he fell, and then he would fall hard. He was tail spinning towards disgrace.

_ "But if I had you, that would be the only thing I ever need._

_ Yeah, if I had you, then money, fame and fortune could not compete."_

His fingers slipped and the chord went sharp, just discernible in the swell of sound. Quickly, he endeavoured to recover, but something had gone horribly wrong because his fingers, so dexterous and skilled were suddenly as clumsy and ill accustomed as a novice, handling his first guitar. He knew the sequence of chords better than he knew himself, forming their shapes in his mind as they waxed and waned, but he could not transform this knowledge into it's intrinsic action. It was as if the tie between his mind and body had been severed, and, instead, it was too greater labour even to breath. There was a sultry tease of oblivion slowly pulling him down.

The tightness in his chest frightened him. It was like the constriction of great leather wings, beating to the pace of death. He knew he was gasping. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears. Something was really wrong.

In a suspended second, he looked around, taking in each face; Loningue, Lisa, Monte, Adam … each of them intent upon their own part in the song, each of them blind to his plight. He needed them so see him. He needed them to know he couldn't do this anymore. He needed them to know he'd failed … But they didn't notice.

Further and further the pull of darkness lured him, and he was powerless to resist, because this relentless expenditure had left him spent.

And suddenly, falling was not an abstract sensation, but a real initiative, and the stage was rising up to meet him. It was going to hurt when it hit. Giving up shouldn't hurt like that.

In a moment of limbo, he entertained the curious and fleeting impression of the song breaking up into hysteria, and the intensity of all eyes upon him. Then, there was no fear, only shame.

_ "There's a thing line between a wild time and a - TOMMY!?"_

We are a morbid race by nature, whose eyes are drawn instinctively to human disaster. And so it was, that with no pre-emptive indication, each of the band witnessed Tommy's arresting decline, played out in a painful slow motion, which even then, did not extend time enough to act. A scream rang out, but no-one knew who uttered it.

Adam watched in horror as his bassist and best friend's eyes rolled back into his head. The only thought capable of penetrating the shock was a satirical one; where was the laughter now? Because that old slapstick dead faint was horrific in real terms, and as far away from funny as anything could be. So how could an era have gotten it so wrong?

The collision of flesh and bone; things which could break, against a rigid surface, reverberated sickeningly, even over the dying sounds of the bass.

For a single stunned moment, no one moved, no one dared to breath, because no one could adequately comprehend what the hell had just happened.

And then, like an arrow finding its mark; _thwack_, after moving silently through the air, the spell was broken. The terrible realization began to set in; something was really wrong with Tommy …

In a destructive movement, which echoed all too noisomely the fragility of things in this world, Adam dropped the microphone where he stood, and as a mirror shattering a soul, it smashed into slivers at his feet; skittering across the floor like a black diamond rain.

The next second, he was at Tommy's side, a whirlwind of emotion and fear, while Monte, Lisa and Longinue remained motionless, still trapped in a state of mass confusion at their stations.

Heart pounding and breath short, Adam pushed back Tommy's hair, desperately calling his name around the lump in his throat, which was growing and growing to chock out the sound. He's never been so helpless, because Tommy didn't respond.

And then, from some integral reserve of necessity, which commandeers the willing in a crisis, everything he knew but had never learned came back to him.

Forcing himself to undertake decisive action when blind panic seemed more cathartic, he traced his fingers across Tommy's neck searching for the pulse point. He found it racing and weak, but very much alive.

Then, with gentle ministrations and still desperate efforts, he manoeuvred the blonde onto his back, before ripping off his own leather jacket, balling it up, and placing it beneath Tommy's legs, elevating them above his heart.

And then, Adam Lambert proceeded to do something he had not done since childhood, when the practice was mandatory. With Tommy's right hand trapped in the vice of his own – all the better to feel that pulse, to count the number of beats until he came to, because right now, that erratic rhythm was the only thing keeping him sane – he prayed, for the salvation of a friend who had no faith.

Then, with his next breath, having exerted every avenue accessible, he called to any available source;

"Someone go and get help!"

Footsteps retreated, but he couldn't tell who's, or how many. He couldn't tear his gaze from the blonde, and his image of beautiful destruction. Maybe he and Tommy were even left alone, for a thundering silence descended, which pressed on his already strained nerves; as he played the most anxious waiting game of his life.

Having fallen awkwardly, it seemed Tommy's arm and shoulder had taken the brunt of the blow. The only form of relief emanating from the fact that it hadn't been his head. He couldn't assess the damage, and wouldn't be able until Tommy came too, but the thought of his friend hurting; how much he must have been hurting already, almost broke Adam's heart, because in one so beautiful it was a sacrilege.

He didn't know what it was about the older man, which inspired in him such a fervent need to protect. Maybe it was his diminutive size, maybe his aversion to the lime-light, maybe it was his voice; soft, and yet deep, completely contrary to his exterior, and maybe it was all of those things put together. Tommy Joe was his protege, the man who had shifted his focus and stayed true to a dream, but more than that, he was innocent. Not in the connotations which society generally understood, but there was just something about him which made people love him. Maybe it was his smile … Adam would have done anything to see that right now.

While he kneeled there, listening to the pressing sound of silence, he whispered again and again;

_"Come on, just open your eyes … Just open your eyes, Tommy … come on …"_

It was the sound of his voice which eventually brought the bassist back to him. Because even distant and distorted, Tommy recognised it as Adam.

He struggled into consciousness like a bee crawling through a honey trap. And waking up brought with it a sensation so much worse than before; graduated in sickness, graduated in pain. His head throbbed tremendously, and when he opened his eyes, the intensity of the light which flooded in was so overwhelming that he feared he would lose last nights frugal servings all over the floor. He groaned a tried to turn away from the omnipotent brightness, uttering a yelp of pain. His shoulder hurt! That was something he didn't remember.

Breathing hard, he allowed Adam's steady hands to hold him. Needing them to anchor him so that he was not swallowed up by shame.

"Easy, try to lay still," the voice was as soothing as a lullaby, though it was hard to imagine how Adam was so calm, "you passed out, banged up your shoulder pretty good. The others have gone to get you some help. Don't worry, everything's gonna be fine."

And then, he was aware of Adam shifting position beside him, and was gripped with an irrational conviction that the singer was about to leave him, but then, the lurid hue of his closed eyes transformed to a more natural, basic black. It was only after a moment that he realized; Adam was shielding him from the intense glare with his body. His heart swelled with gratitude which he couldn't find means to express.

He lay in the shadow comfortably, trying not to breath in the scent of the leather; which always enveloped the singer, and opened his eyes timidly. The action still invited pain, but this time it was bearable. He squeezed the hand which had captured the cradle of his own, an effort of reassurance which meant Adam only held on tighter.

He knew how the younger man would look at him – and that was why he avoided his eye – with a countenance haunted by responsibility and guilt, as he made all of this his fault.

Tommy Joe could muster the strength, even now, to pretend that he was okay, but what he could not do, was witness that persecution when he was the one at fault. He concentrated upon the grain in the laminate floor, even though it writhed and wriggled and made him feel worse.

He was experiencing a sensation almost like being outside of himself and looking in. These things were happening all around him, but they weren't really, and he had to concentrate to hold onto the smallest detail when everything felt like a dream, and surely was as insubstantial. He didn't like the sensation. He wanted it to stop.

He felt the necessity to say something. Could sense how Adam waited patiently for him to speak, as if words, irrelevant of their meaning, somehow made all of this okay in a way nothing else could. So Tommy said something which he needed the world, and Adam especially, to here. Voice weak and failing;

"I'm sorry …"

"Sorry?" Adam stuttered, "Tommy, what on earth have you possibly got to be sorry for?"

But the blonde would not answer, and Adam shortly conceded the point. Instead, he ran his fingers through the soft platinum locks, vying to keep both of them calm as their worlds were thrown into turmoil. When Tommy began to shiver, he extricated the jacket from beneath his feet and used it to cover him.

In a room designed to hold three thousand strong, they sat alone, intimate and afraid. Waiting.

And then, the rush of footsteps returning, and relief and regret that the silence was spent. Tommy groaned as he anticipated questions which he knew his answers would never satisfy. He knew he had been stupid letting everything overwhelm him, but that alone would never have prevented the mistake.

He felt Adam pull away, to give this stranger space to work, but right now, Tommy needed him, and this time he held on tighter, with all the merge strength he could muster. The action said please, and arrested Adam immediately.

"I'm here," he reassured, pulling himself closer again, "I'm right here, just try to relax."

The younger man had never sounded closer to crying, and Tommy hated himself for being the cause of this agony.

Then a face Tommy didn't recognise intruded into his vision, but the middle aged man was not speaking to him.

_"What happened? …"_

Adam elected the responsibility to reply, answering an affirmative or denial to a series of preliminary questions, and bristling indignantly when one alluded to Tommy having taken an illicit substance.

Tommy only caught snippets of the the conversation, because comprehension necessitated concentration, and concentration only exacerbated his already immense headache. But one thing he could not prevent himself hearing was the pain in Adam's voice; which hurt more than its physical counterpart ever could, immortalised in the words:

"I just wish he would have told us if he was feeling this bad. I can't understand why he didn't …"

How could Tommy have told him? How could he have explained?

Adam looked down at his bassist, gazing up from underneath the folds of his jacket; like a frightened child, in lieu of a nightmare, peeking out from between the sheets, and felt his soul shiver. So small already, Tommy seemed to shrink before his eyes, as every great figure does when we chance to see them broken.

And then, came the fateful words;

"Now Mr. Ratliff, I'm going to examine you."

Predictably his hands were cold, and suppressing a groan, Tommy suffered through his ministrations with stoicism; focusing instead on the contact between him and Adam; the hand in his own, warm and tender in comparison. He couldn't admit that he'd failed, not to the man who had already shown him so much faith.

He wanted nothing more than to lie down in a darkened room, find sleep, and wake up feeling human again, because he'd almost forgotten what that was like. But the chance would be a long time coming, if it even came at all, because he knew they would never leave him, not now, he had frightened them too much. And as a contrary truth in a contrary situation, it was easier to play patient than it was to play protector. They had the hard job in this; convincing themselves he was going to be alright. Tommy Joe had always been self-sufficient, and so it was surreal and disconcerting to have that taken away from him now.

The doctor gave a low, monosyllabic grunt, as if celebrating a grim conviction, but did not elaborate. Tommy felt Adam growing impatient beside him, an emotion which took on the cast of a more intensive protectiveness. He wanted to reassure him, but he didn't know how, just as Adam didn't know how to stand idly by.

"Okay, Mr. Ratliff, I think you can sit up now, I only have a few questions left to ask."

Tommy repressed a groan, and then almost shrieked in shock, when hands hoisted him into an upright position, and his world oscillated again. He was fitted against the planes of a chest he already knew so well, and found himself panting from the efforts of a movement he hadn't even performed.

Adam's voice, as soft and comforting as silk, reiterated again:

"I've got you."

Friendship was a menial thing, until you realized it was another form of love, and like love, would come, earnestly, to encapsulate very few. Both were a search for those people you connected with; physically and familiarly; their only separating factor. This friendship with Adam, even just four weeks in, was something he knew he had waited his entire life for, even without knowing, because day by day, it was carefully rebuilding that part of himself he had long laid to ruins.

Prophecy was proved correct and his answers were tried unsatisfactorily. _When was the last time you had more than six hours sleep Mr. Ratliff? When was the last time you ate a proper meal Mr. Ratliff?_ Deep down he had known what damage his choices would reap in the moment that he made them, but such is the reckless nature of humanity, and sometimes, even, our honour, which drives us to our own destruction.

Watching Tommy stutter through the interrogation with guilt and repentance in his eyes, Adam mourned over how much his friend had neglected to take care of himself – his sacrifices for the band. And feeling Tommy's warm weight in his arms reminded him of his own fatigue. Maybe they could all do with a rest ...

Finally, after a protracted silence, which gave each of the various band members the sense of being chastised, the doctor pronounced his diagnosis.

"Exhaustion and dehydration." His tone was clipped, as if he wished to add the clarification 'merely', but with the utmost discipline prevented himself. Evidently this was a man who had seen too much of the self-destructive life styles of rock stars, and yet, there was something in his bearing, which Adam thought hinted at the military. It was a striking comparison indeed if it existed, though it didn't excuse his unprofessional prejudice. "Nothing that some food, some fluids and some rest wont cure in time."

Adam heard Lisa cluck motheringly from behind, maternal instinct stirred. He could have laughed for the consideration of how much Tommy was about to be fussed over; how much he deserved to be fussed over. But then Monte voiced their biggest professional concern;

"Will he be recovered enough to play on Monday?"

The doctor, already taking his leave, raised an eyebrow, his tone leaving a lot to be desired for;

"That's really up to him."

But the words were contrary to what they said. In a situation which negated agency, he somehow, still managed to implicate choice, as if recovery was a decision as oppose to a process.

In silence, they watched as he walked away. Walked away from a national problem that one man alone could never fix.

"Wow," Longineu sighed in disbelief, "go to Doctor. Happy there with a severed finger and he'd sellotape it back on and tell you to take a Tylenol. Have a heart attack and he'd tell you you were faking."

Monte laughed dryly, and for the sake of one single action, suddenly the air felt lighter.

Nothing had changed, only knowledge; but maybe that changed everything. Tommy still looked so pitiful, so tired and so afraid, but they had each resolved themselves to the notion that he was going to be okay, because they were going to make sure of it. And after such a noisome shock, laughter was the only thing which would resonate.

"Come on," Adam whispered softly, "let's get you somewhere more comfortable."

It took Tommy a moment to register that the strong arms which only moments before had held him, now lifted and carried him; the motion had been so fluid that he hadn't noticed its transfer. They carried him as easily as if he were a child. So weak and guilty, he felt like one. But he was both too grateful and too comfortable to be embarrassed.

He had fought so long to stay strong, for fear of revealing fallibility, but maybe now he was coming to realize … it was okay for his band-mates to see him defeated, it was okay to let them know that he couldn't handle everything, because in truth, neither could they, and they would never blame him for it.

As they made their way back to the dressing room, the rest of the band crowded around. Taking his cue from Longineu, Monte quickly occupied the light hearted stance, which made all of this less indomitable.

"Well wouldn't the fans have an absolute field day with this scene! Heroic Adam Lambert sweeps an exhausted Tommy Joe off his feet. Their very own knight in sequin leather."

Adam laughed luxuriantly. Tommy, on the other hand only mustered up enough energy to utter a weak;

"Shut up Monte," before succumbing to the persuasion of sleep; warm, comfortable and safe. After that, everything became a blur of reality and dreams.

It was with precise and tender movements that Adam laid the blonde man upon the couch of their communal dressing room, fixing the leather coat around him; a part of himself he left in Tommy's care. Then, indicating for Lisa to watch over him, he left, endeavouring to secure the best food this place would offer, because he was going to make sure Tommy started looking after himself.

The truth was, he was as guilty as sin, because day by day he had seen the physical toll of his friends dedication; he had known he wasn't sleeping, that he was hung up on something, and rather than either of them admit that Tommy was struggling; he had taken the blondes reassurances with enough determination to believe they held conviction, because he knew that was what they both wanted. He had been wrong and he had been stupid. But he was going to put this right.

Lisa ran her fingers through the long blonde hair soothingly. Smiling a little as Tommy stirred. The man, hardened and capable as he was, was the poster child for human sympathy. He moved people to the best of themselves.

"Don't worry, sweetheart, we'll have you rested up in no time."

When Adam returned, it was to confront the same question he had been running from before, but this time with a new resolve.

What happened next?

"I'm gonna stay here with Tommy for a while. But I want you all to go back to the hotel, grab a couple of beers, take in a show, do something for yourselves …"

There was something in his tone which made them regard him curiously. It was not a mere release from obligation he offered, although it was that as well, it was a white flag; a truce called in an unmanned battleground.

"What about rehearsals?" Monte hedged, knowing Adam well and sensing the self-sacrifice.

"Cancelled. We're not going to get any better in three days than we are right now, and all practising is doing is wasting time and energy." Then, he smiled wryly, "Come on, you don't think we're freaking sweet?!"

In truth, the weight of Tommy in his arms, had reminded him of the burden of his own fatigue, and by extension theirs, but he didn't say that.

"Well, when you put it like that …" Longineu laughed. "There was a – er – theme night I was hoping to catch, if you get my drift." He elbowed Monte confidingly in the ribs and as the two of them chuckled, Adam rolled his eyes good naturedly.

"What kind of theme?" Lisa asked suspiciously.

"Nautical," Monte winked.

"Making some waves …"

Lisa's expression implied the sentiments; good god, and Adam pretended to shiver; the least he knew about that endeavour the better.

He watched them go, with insincere promises to check in on Tommy later. He didn't resent them; guys were guys, sensitivity never really sunk in – they were just hard-wired wrong. Meanwhile being effeminate, he regularly found, was more a blessing than a curse.

But as he moved to kneel beside Tommy, he was aware that Lisa was still watching him.

"Are you sure you'll be okay? I can stay, if you want … "

"We'll be fine," Adam smiled softly, "but thank you."

She nodded and began to walk away, but he called her back.

"Lisa? I was wrong you know … " He watched Tommy's serene face for a moment, losing himself in the absent comfort of dreams.

"About what, honey?"

"Giving a good performance on Monday would be brilliant … but it's not the most important thing. I guess I kind of lost sight of what really mattered for a while."

She smiled at him, but didn't say anything. He hadn't expected her to, but he needed her to know.

The door swung closed and they were alone.

For a while he simply watched Tommy breathing, relished in the steady rise and fall of his chest which meant that he was only sleeping. Sleeping and alive. We didn't go through life thinking about mortality, but every now and again, something pulls us up, reminds us that, despite our best efforts, we are not invincible.

But as the soup he had procured cooled and the water warmed, he knew he had to wake him; that they had to start rebuilding those foundations. And so, he traced that sharp jawline with his fingers and softly called his name, the most gentle disturbance he could muster.

Tommy stirred almost instantly, startled and confused; sleep forgot weakness, and it was disconcerting to come back. For a moment, Adam glimpsed the lost and lonely child again, within the man who was a pinnacle of strength, and it moved him to tenderness – the need to heal and protect.

"Hey, it's just me," he soothed, "listen, I know you're tired, but I need you to drink a little for me."

In the silence he poured a quarter content of the water bottle into a small plastic beaker, before proffering it to the blond. Tommy didn't take it, but whether he was unable to or just masochistically resistant, Adam couldn't fathom, and after a moments hesitation, he brought the smooth plastic rim to Tommy's lips instead, which were, at that moment, preoccupied with trying to form the complexities of sound.

"Don't talk," Adam chastised softly, "just drink."

And without resistance, his request was gratified.

Tommy drank steadily until his grey skin regained the kiss of colour; until his eyes, dull as stones, echoed again the presence of vitality, like the first touch of moonlight on a current-less pond, until the change in him, though slight, was remarkable, and the entire contents of the bottle were consumed. Water could never be described as rigid, and yet it was this alone which gave Tommy's malleable form back its rigidity; like a flower proceeding the rains.

Even with his make-up smudged and his eyes threatening each minute to close, he began to resemble once more the indomitable figure Adam knew, because a tameless nature, such as they two possessed, was more than just physicality, it was a fighting spirit. But even this relief was tinged with sorrow because the band aid had been so simple, and yet Tommy had denied himself even that.

Noting the slow return of his strength, Adam helped the blonde into a sitting position, a hand lingering upon his back. He wanted to draw him in close, away from the vices of the world, and just hold him until he found himself again … but he didn't know how.

Tommy was as comfortable with Adam's sexuality as any straight man could be, more so, even, for the depth and sincerity of his acceptance put three-quarters of the world to shame, and so, he would not have rejected the intimacy for fear of a come on. But Adam was still … unsure. Unsure of himself the more he came to think about it; because real friendship, in his life and in this business was hard enough to come by, but his bond with Tommy, even in so short a time superseded even that sanctity. They were more than friends, but they were not quite brothers, not yet.

Adam let his hand fall; knowing one day he would eventually figure it out.

Another bottle was procured and Tommy continued to drink with relish, fully appreciating for the first time in his life, the revitalising qualities of the bland liquid. It rushed through him like the taste of a life he was striving to get back to. But he also began to consider that maybe he was reckless, and a little self-depreciating, because he had denied himself this necessity, for a reason he couldn't even remember now, or at least, didn't seem important anymore.

He could sense Adam watching him; and not just with the concerned gaze of a friend; he had second guessed some worser part of Tommy's soul, and the blonde knew he had guessed it right. With renewed shame, Tommy determinedly avoided his eye, drunk obediently and retreated into himself; a useless defence, because all it did was treat him to the grand parade of his own failure. This was the part where Adam kicked him out of the band, he knew it … and he'd tried so hard as well.

"Think you can eat something?" Adam asked softly, offering a cup of warm chicken soup and a wholemeal roll. Wholesome food that went down easy; filling and gentle.

In truth, Tommy still felt a little nauseous, and when his stomach grumbled as he took in the aroma, he couldn't certify whether it was with hunger or a warning of rebellion. His indecision must have showed for the next moment Adam urged;

"Just a little bit? For me?"

The qualifier was a clincher. Tommy would do anything for Adam and the singer knew it. Still a little reluctantly he reached out for the thick, creamy soup and the still tender bread, beginning a slow rhythm of sipping and dunking. Adam grinned, but it was entirely pained, and entirely forced.

Then, whatever spell had been holding them to that moment between two extremes was abruptly broken. And now came the time for explanations and answers. Adam's voice was heavy when he spoke, full of self persecution, like he was denouncing a baser sin;

"I made a mistake TommyJoe; I pushed too hard," he smiled sadly even as Tommy's earnest eyes fervently denied culpability. "I was so consumed by the idea of making a good impression on Monday, and the doors it might open, that I sold out on everything else; sold out on you guys. We're still getting to know each other, our strengths, our weaknesses, our habits; we're still on that learning curve, but lately, I haven't been walking the walk, and I'm sorry. So I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell me what you can handle, and what you can't. I need you to reign me in."

He took Tommy's hand, holding it tighter as it shook, the blonde sensing a shift in responsibility which he was not ready to confront.

The sight of his timidness was slowly breaking Adam's heart, and it made the next words even harder to speak, because he knew Tommy didn't want to hear them, felt like he couldn't;

"But … I also need you to talk to me, Tommy, about anything that's bothering you, because you've been hung up on something for weeks. I can't figure it out, and I won't watch you collapse again; I can't. So I need you to start looking after yourself, because I love you too much to lose you."

To Adam's horror, he saw that there were silent tears running down Tommy's cheeks, and he felt his throat constrict. He couldn't hold it together when affronted by this image of beauty crying. He couldn't hold it together when it was Tommy.

"I'm sorry ... " the blonde whispered desolately.

"You keep telling me, but what do you mean? What are you sorry for?" Adam urged.

Tommy finally looked him in the eye, looked like a rabbit caught in the headlights of its own impeding death; the words punctuated by a sob that he did not have the strength to suppress;

"I'm sorry I'm such a failure."

If Adam thought he had felt broken before, it was nothing to how those words tore him apart now. Like barbed wire they ripped through his heart, leaving him first reeling, and then numb from the pain. How? How did such a remarkable man come to this? And with such vehemence that he would drive himself into the ground trying to be better than perfection?

"Tommy … no …" Adam moaned, burying his head in the blondes shoulder, for a moment utterly defeated.

He could hear Tommy's laboured breathing, gasped around the sobs which shook him, this swell of emotion costing more strength than he had.

The small hand gripped Adam's wrist hard, for the first time in his life, needing someone there while he fell apart.

It was a while before Adam found the strength, deep within, to life his head; to confront this issue and overcome it, rather than being swallowed in the mire, but every second killed him, until after a thousand deaths he forgot to feel. "How can you think that?"

And now it was Tommy's turn to profess.  
"'Cause it's t-true," he whispered, desolately, "I tired so hard to be as good as Monte, as good as I was on guitar – bass isn't even that different. I tried, and yet, I never got any better, so I practised harder and longer, ashamed of how little progress I was making, hating how I was letting you all down. But it didn't make a difference. Nothing made a difference. I couldn't keep the rhythm, my fingers were clumsy, as if they had never played a chord in their life. It was all I could think about, laying there night after night, and I couldn't sleep anyway, so eventually I gave up trying altogether. Instead I used the time to practice even more; for hours on end, until I thought I had it … and then it slipped away again! If anything, all I got is worse and I don't understand how! … And now this … I'm not strong enough to keep on trying, and giving up makes me a f-failure." His voice having grown strong on self-depreciation, now broke at the final exact, the weight of his own admission even too heavy for him to bare.

Adam didn't believe what he was hearing, and what made it worse was that Tommy was wrong. And how could he not realize it?

"But, Tommy, you're amazing! No, listen to me, you are," Adam pleaded when Tommy began to shake his head vehemently. He captured that perfect chin in his hands and forced the blond to look at him, to see the conviction in his eyes. "You're amazing, and I can't believe you don't know it! When you first walked into that audition room I knew I wanted you in my band, even before I'd heard you play, and you know why?" Tommy shook his head, with greater effort now, working against Adam's hold,

"Because I already knew how good you were! It wasn't arrogance, it wasn't even confidence, but there was something about the way you held yourself that exuded capability; understated, but immense. You were the first person I'd been excited about in a week, and you didn't disappoint. I already had my guitar player, but I wasn't prepared to let you go, not a chance in hell, because I wasn't prepared to see you on the stage in a years time playing for some other band and wishing You were mine. It's one of the few times in my life I've ever been selfish," he chuckled a little, "so I asked you to do something I'd never asked another artist to do; I asked you step outside your comfort zone, throw yourself into something completely new and audition again the next day. You rose to the challenge. I didn't expect miracles, I'll confess, but yet I couldn't help being intrigued, because like I said, you excited me. Then, you came back the next day, with that shy smile, hiding behind your fringe. The capability was still there, but you didn't believe it any more. You had Monte worried, he was quietly rooting for you, but not me, I knew you'd impress all along. Then you sat down and blew us both out of the water. If you could do that in one night, I thought, imagine what you could do given a year." Adam grinned at the memory, one of his first and favourites of Tommy. But the blonde was resolute in his self-depreciation.

"It was just a fluke," he dismissed.

"It most certainly was not! Nor the thousand times since. The only thing that's changed between then and now, is that, then, you were just playing; naturally, instinctively, and, now, you've over-thought it. Somewhere down the line, you lost faith in your own ability, and because you began to believe you couldn't do it, you've made it so you can't. It's nothing more than a self-fulfilling prophecy."

This time, Tommy was no so quick to dismiss himself, because … the argument made sense, more than anything in this situation had in a long time, and what's more, he wanted to believe it. There kindled in his eyes a light which both feared and dared to hope.

"How can you know?" he whispered.

"Because I've been there." Adam chuckled a little, because wasn't everything was good fun in hindsight. "American Idol finale, the whole Nation's watching, and I'm standing just off-stage, about to sing with Queen. I knew I'd absolutely washed out in rehearsal; missed my cues, forgot the words and hit about twenty bum notes, and I knew, as soon as I stepped out onto the stage, it was going to be a bloodbath, because like you said; I'd practised and practised and the only thing I'd got was worse. At the time, I didn't understand it either, and I worked myself into such a state that I ended up tossing my cookies in the nearest waste-basket, not my finest moment, I'll tell you. And just to add to the indignity that was how Kris found me." he shuddered slightly at that particularly un-glam aspect of the memory, while Tommy managed a weak smile, "But he said something which really hit home, he told me; 'the only reason you won't be able to do it is because you believe you can't.' And it wasn't until that moment that I realized just how much I had been comparing myself to these legends and deciding I was inferior, just how much I'd lost faith in my own ability. I'd been so horrendous in rehearsals because I'd believed, next to them, I was, and that was all it was; just a belief! Easier rectified than a loss of talent. So I told myself instead that I was going to step out onto that stage and deliver a show-stopping performance, and the rest … is history" He flourished his hands.

The tears had dried now upon Tommy's cheeks, a visible memory blemishing his hot skin in non-parallel tracks. Adam wanted to erase them, wash them away with cold, clear water – but even then he knew they wouldn't be completely gone, he would see their ghost again, when the he looked upon Tommy's beautiful features and remembered today.

"I hope you're right," the bassists murmured listlessly, completely spent. He handed the empty cup back to Adam and consumed the last bite of bread with effort, clearly determined to show compliance.

"I am right," Adam said with such conviction, there was little hope left for doubt, "and if you can't find the strength to believe in yourself just yet, at least believe that I believe in you."

And the smile Adam would have done anything to witness an hour before, was granted to him now.

Those people who love us, perceive the very things we are blind to – best … and worst – and at times, know us better even than we know ourselves. They reach out a hand and guide us when we've long lost sight of the road ahead, and every fleeting hope has fallen into darkness. They are rocks, holding us tethered, and sometimes even holding us together.

No matter how the hours dragged, this day would end, and tomorrow would come, and even the days subsequent to that. Tommy would recuperate, regain himself, and stand proud upon that stage Monday night as they called the world to listen.

These weren't questions, they were not even choices, what they were, were convictions, because strength was an obsolete measure without weakness, and by admitting he was fallible, Tommy only made himself stronger.

But those were grand thoughts which came later, for that moment, they were just two friends in the darkness – a little disconcerted and a little afraid, needing something to chase away the shadows.

And now Adam was sure; of himself and where they stood upon the grounds of a limitless friendship.

Gently he eased himself onto the couch, and pulled Tommy close to him, all the better to feel that strengthening heartbeat and warm breath, to find comfort and peace after a maelstrom day. He had intended to drive them home, but the truth was he was feeling a little shaky himself, like a delayed reaction to shock, and all he wanted to do was lay there, until the world rearranged itself back into some semblance of cohesion.

Easily, Tommy melted into his embrace and healed. Even early on their friendship was golden. And as he sunk into a dreamless void, he caught the last whisper of Adam's words;

_"Please … don't ever scare me like that again …"_

* * *

**They will probably not all be as long as this one, just the idea kind of ran away with me. It's a fact, I haven't been able to keep to a word limit yet :')**

**Thank you very much for reading :)**

**-One Wish Magic.**


	2. He's Insecure

**This was actually the first thing I wrote when trialing the idea of tackling this genre, it's been tucked away in a little notepad since. So over Christmas I revisited it, reworked it, and found that I liked it :)**

**Hope you enjoy.**

* * *

_ He's insecure …_

* * *

It was a life of sequin encores and musical grand design. The life he had always dreamed of. Given everything to achieve.

And yet, at its epitome, twenty-eight years in the making just didn't seem like enough; enough to know, enough to experience. Like a frugal resume, it hinted at some integral deficit – maybe of character, which strife and hardship emboldened; maybe of a victory won too soon, attained too easily, and therefore, vapid; maybe of rebellion, which always ran the risk of silencing a singers voice to the upstaging of wild antics.

No matter how he deferred it, the question always remained; did he deserve to be standing here, with his dreams, his whole future, handed to him on a glitter encrusted plate? And if he did, what made him deserve it more than any other artist fighting tooth and nail to be heard? What made him special?

His life thus far had been one continuous war against himself, brought to its climax during Idol, when, neither he or Kris possessing the savagery to pit themselves against one another, he had, instead, pitted Adam Lambert against Adam Lambert – and lost. But not even then, had he seemed like such an insurmountable adversary as he did standing here alone.

Opening night was a sell out, and even now the fans would be assembling, waiting restlessly for him to wow. To step out onto that stage and affect and inspire every one of them separately, with nothing more than a voice; nothing more than they themselves possessed. The only thing he had to do was not disappoint – and yet, that small detail seemed frankly astronomical. Forty-thousand expectations, and he had to satisfy them all.

Adam Lambert was one of the most confident, charismatic and thrillingly controversial artists to have emerged in the last few years, and more than that, he was a consummate performer, setting the icon of glam-rock ablaze. At least, that was how the world saw him; how he _wanted_ to be seen.

But as he gazed into the mirror on his dressing-room table, his image lit nakedly by an arch of frosted lights, it was to find that, at this moment when he needed their front most, he could descry none of these things within himself.

Instead, his reflection boasted the reduced image of an absolutely unremarkable man; the hype of the tour having made him forget just how insignificant he really was. It was like his very name had taken on a persona in itself; an identity with which everyone assumed intimacy, and which surpassed even his own degree of wildness. What if, at this defining moment, he just couldn't measure up?

He frowned to note exactly how his visage betrayed apprehension, even fear – a pallid face made paler by the harshness of the lights.

Watching yourself in the mirror made you question the logic of everything you did, because it made you really see yourself, and what Adam saw was vulnerability – a far cry from the confidence he was praised with.

He felt exposed and completely naked without the make-up, which, in the rock industry, was so commonly synonymous with war paint. But with T. minus thirty minutes and counting until he had to open the show, he couldn't stop his hands shaking long enough to apply it.

Adam turned away from the mirror with a sound of frustration, moving further into the dressing room which was his for a brief moment. All he wanted in this bright-light showbiz world, as he stood poised to make the definitive leap into his career, was something mundane and familiar, something to take his mind off the very thing he was preparing to do. But the functional room offered no solace; indifferent to the hopes and fears of every aspiration which passed through its doors. Instead, the white walls seemed to absorb the intensity of the stadium beyond and fire it at him in waves, making him feel trapped, like an ant beneath a magnifying glass.

He picked up a cup of water, brought it to his lips, and then lowered it again without taking so much as a sip. He didn't want a drink. He felt too sick to drink. He didn't even know why he had done it.

He sat, he stood, he paced, and then repeated the cycle again; in each pursuit deciding he favoured another. And, as the minutes wasted away, he felt like screaming.

Adam Lambert had never had stage fright to compare, but right now, he was convinced he was pretty close to how it would feel.

And, why?

Because he thought he wasn't good enough? Because if he didn't have then what it took to win America's heart as their Idol, what lead him to believe he could be anyone else's now? Everyone said Adam Lambert would go far, but did that equally mean he would always be the dark horse that fell at the final hurdle?

In no hour since, had he considered his Idol experience as having affected him, because he had always been vying for the beautifully humble Kris to win. But maybe, somewhere, subconsciously, it _had_, creating some origin aspect of an inferiority complex; an insecurity …

He didn't know what it was that made performing in front of a crowd of fans harder than walking into that audition room for the first time. Maybe the expectation, the little ground for fault. In an audition, you could be raw and still showcase exceptional talent, but two years down the line and people had lost sight of the truth; that an artist was eternally growing, eternally learning, and that perfection was a lie. And yet, that was what people demanded, and were all too quick to criticise, not realizing that it was _imperfection_ which made music work.

Criticism from a mentor could be taken constructively, criticism from a fan _hurt_. Because they each owed one-another a responsibility of love. They shared their shames and revelled in a double triumph. A personal and yet, estranged relationship which, somehow, only made the fear of disappointment worse.

None of this, however, was helping.

In a moment of weakness, an over-active imagination ruled him with wild thought, until he almost wished he could be anywhere else, doing anything but this, what he had always dreamed. Life was a fight against fear, and it was a hard fought battle alone.

He had tried distraction, to a frankly disastrous result; focusing his attention upon the rudimentary practice of scales would have otherwise been an easy and competent comfort, except that his voice broke on ever note. And after that failing, the only feasible option left was to drown out.

So, picking up his Ipod, he selected a song blindly, because the words didn't matter, only that they could be played as the precise ear-splitting volume as to render thought obsolete. Then, he took this moment to lose himself, for only in that loss would he find composure.

This was the last time Adam Lambert would ever entertain doubts before a performance – though he didn't know it then – the practice both finding inception and conclusion in his first. But it was not the last time he came to be besieged by self-doubt – _that_ insecurity stayed, an ember within us all. A soul as inexorable as himself.

As he allowed the music to wash over him – a phantom courage, which could steal a moment and make it remarkable – he didn't hear the other man enter, and the flash of platinum caught momentarily in the mirror startled him.

In one rapid movement, he pulled the headphones off and spun around to find Tommy standing hesitantly in the doorway.

"I did knock, but …" the blonde trailed off smiling, gesturing redundantly at the headphones in the singers hand, which emitted a swell of sound to rival what they were preparing to step into.

Whether from relief, or an overflow of some unspecified emotion boiled to the surface like a geezer, or perhaps, even, a combination of both, Adam laughed a jittery, completely uncharacteristic laugh as he clutched his racing heart, knowing there would be no stalling it now.

Tommy Joe was shrewd, sassy and all about the show-mance aesthetic. Repeatedly, Adam convinced himself that was why he had hired him, but the truth was, he had hired him exactly _because_ those striking attributes had hinted at so much more besides. And because the man frequently dazzled him – from the moment he first stepped into that audition and every day since.

So, as he watched the blonde take in, with practised stoicism, the chaotic appearance of a room, which only an hour before had been the pinnacle of order, Adam knew Tommy had summed up every emotion, every wild idea perfectly.

He sighed as Tommy continued to watch; waiting for him to speak. He knew what the man was offering; a willing ear and wealth of reassurance, which only necessitated the price of Adam's faith to work – giving the gift of vulnerability without judgement. There was no point in pretence, because existent between them was some strange, intimate connection, which allowed them to perceive each others heart … and Tommy would see through it anyway. They understood each other, every asset and every flaw.

Relenting, Adam moved to take a seat upon the dressing table, a gesture Tommy mirrored, until both sat cross-legged facing each other across the expanse, like two scales of the same spectrum.

Swallowing hard, Adam confessed;

"I'm so nervous, Glitterbaby, and I've never been nervous in my life. It just … forty-thousand people …"

The use of the nickname, usually synonymous with playful banter, did not alter its connotations now turned over to seriousness. It still meant trust and friendship, but, just, perhaps, on a more profound level. One word could let people in.

"I know," Tommy said softly, gazing upon the singer with eyes that envisioned a faceless crowd, where every detail was both brought into focus and distorted. They had performed live before, and yet, they knew nothing before could have ever helped prepare them for this. "It's all I can think about too."

And then, he blinked, and with the action came a shift in his demeanour;

"But sometimes it's good to be nervous, because all it really means is that you care about a performance. It's normal, even, just an extra incentive to shine – and you're going to set the night on fire! You'll be brilliant, you always are."

Adam grinned wryly, though he was genuinely touched by the words.

"Adam Lambert, normal?" raising an eyebrow, "Now _that_ would shock the press!"

"Mmm, that might be a little too controversial even for _us_. Better let them retain their ignorance in thinking you're a freak." With a playful expression, Tommy nudged Adam's knee with the toe of his boot.

All it took was one glance at each other for them to dissolve into laughter; a wonderfully liberating sensation in this time of extravagant stress.

Somehow, Tommy always knew exactly what to say. He seemed to taste the world around him and become, instinctively and exactly, what people needed him to be, without ever deviating from himself. He maintained that Adam possessed the same skill, but Adam didn't think he quite had it down, because, while Tommy drew from multiple sources, Adam only ever drew from him.

And suddenly, the singer realized that he had been wrong in seeking the mundane to distract him. Instead, he should have sought friendship to hearten him, because it was within this that he eventually found peace.

Their laughter only ceased when they were breathless, and their sides ached from the action. Then they lapsed into an easy silence, drawing courage from one another, offering faith across the divide.

Tommy looked at Adam, dressed in what, at first glance, appeared to be nothing more extravagant than simple black leather; his strong arms exposed. But looking closer, he began to perceive the character of every piece the singer wore and made his own. That was the lesson in really seeing Adam; you couldn't take everything at face value. And in the spotlights of the dressing-room, the patent finish appeared like a carapace; an armour which insults and scandals couldn't penetrate, which kept the world at arms length, just close enough to touch. It was a shield behind which which he had sheltered every one of them at some point.

Rock-stars often perpetuated a bad stereotype, but for a group of guys supposedly devoid of any moral scruple, there was something honest in them all. Some home-boy trait which kept them sane, and dare they say it, somewhat restrained in the sins paradise of rock and roll. Kept them humble, compassionate, earnest and with the ability to dream – allowed them to be human, and by being human; vulnerable.

So, it was with no embarrassment then, that Adam held out the stick of black eye-liner to Tommy – whose artistic flare was legend within their clique – and asked;

"Think you can glam me up in ten minutes?"

The blonde grinned at the challenge and motioned for Adam to take a more appropriate seat on the chair, though he couldn't resist teasing:

"And here I thought you were making a statement."

With that mischievous expression of his, Adam spun round on the chair once, coming to a halt before the bassist again.

"Oh we _are_ going to make a statement, but au natural isn't it."

Tommy didn't even presume to ask. Agreeing to work with Adam Lambert was strapping yourself in for a wild ride. And trust was already a given. Instead, he turned his attentions towards the task in hand, his brow creased in concentration, his smouldering, black-rimmed eyes intense as he transformed imagination into art.

But for all his bassists calm exterior, Adam recognised the cracks in his composure, _felt_ them, when he concentrated solely upon the touch.

"Your hands are shaking …" he said softly. It was an observation, not a critique. But something about seeing the same nervous state that had characterised himself, reflected in someone as kind and beautiful as Tommy waxed a sacrilege.

"Yeah," Tommy laughed a little self-consciously, "it's the funniest thing, as soon as I pick up my guitar, they stop. Just like yours will, as soon as you get hold of the mic." There was nothing they could hide from each other. "Don't worry though, I won't smudge as long as you _keep still_."

The last part was said with mock exasperation, for at that moment, the singer had angled his head to the side in a fashion precisely reminiscent of a puppy figuring something out.

Adam laughed at Tommy's feistiness as the blonde slipped a finger beneath his chin and repositioned his head until they were again face to face and forced to meet each others eyes. But when Adam spoke, his voice was soft, affected and sincere;

"Why don't you think you deserve to be nervous?"

Tommy didn't deny it, but he didn't immediately answer either, because, maybe, he didn't know. Often, the things which we depreciate ourselves for are even little known to us.

He concentrated upon the intricacy of his design, considering, as a vision of his entire life passed him by; a life full of wanting, but never feeling like he was enough, of dreaming, but never having the courage. Was their an echo in him of the same insecurities he was trying so hard in Adam to banish?

"I'm not the one centre stage," he finally said, before clamming up on the issue, "and besides, _I'm_ meant to be reassuring _you_."

That was Tommy all over; always deflecting any kind of attention onto their star, never believing he deserved to be admired too. For a rock-star who could project such a convincing front of devil-may-care, he was remarkably shy.

"Already done," Adam grinned succinctly, bringing his right ankle up to rest against the opposite knee as he surveyed Tommy.

And both of them knew it was, for in the other they equally calmed the storms and awakened the beast – a peculiar and fascinating mix. Adam knew that as long as he had Tommy by his side, he could face anything the world threw at him with confidence, even this, and he wondered how he had forgot. And Tommy knew Adam would be there, to hold his hand as he lead him into the lime-light, for as long as it took him to find his feet; a warm, comforting presence which would never desert.

"And don't you think," Adam raised an eyebrow wryly, "that I might have a bit of a hard time trying to pull off a show by myself? Do you know, Tommy Joe, I've never met anyone more humble. You're putting me to shame!"

Tommy smiled a little as he began to apply glitter embellishments to his design with a clammy finger and a delicate touch.

But Adam had had an idea, and he was a man who defined his life upon impulse. He slipped free of Tommy's grasp and converged upon the mass of bags which formed his entourage.

"Hey, I'm not finished …" Tommy pouted.

"Just humour me for a second," the singer insisted, rummaging through the various pockets with wild intent, until his fingers closed around the object he sought. With a triumphant sound, he converged upon the blonde again, and delicately slipped a necklace around his neck.

Tommy traced his fingers down the cold length of silver chain, reaching the charm at the bottom; an almost crescent moon shape. He had seen Adam wear it before.

"It brings good luck"

Tommy, whose atheism seeped into every vestige of belief life could hold, raised an eyebrow sceptically;

"No it doesn't."

"Yeah, you're right," Adam chuckled, "it doesn't. But it's totally glam-rock and suits you, so you should wear it anyway."

Tommy understood what the gesture was seeking to communicate, because although words could say it easier, actions said it better; we're in this together. And he appreciated it.

"Thank you. _Now_ will you sit down?" Tommy asked with amusement.

Adam ruffled the man's hair fondly as he passed, teasing the strands into a wilder disarray. It was a mark of their friendship that this liberty was permitted, but Tommy was a pussy cat where Adam was concerned, and the weakness was mutual. So, instead of offering a scathing remark, which would have be the reward of any other daring soul, the bassist just simply sighed, in a long-suffering manner, which unashamedly admitted everything of the power Adam had over him.

The singer winked mischievously as he settled back into the chair with exaggerated obedience, waiting for Tommy to satisfy his mildly perfectionist tendencies.

And with seven minutes to go, every vestige of fear which had assuaged him, was transformed into a fevered excitement, and he longed for the rush of the crowd; the kind of ecstasy which only came from performing in front of forty-thousand people all screaming his name. From feeling oppressed by the sheer weight of the world, he was now suddenly on top of it, and there was only one thing which had intervened between the two states to exchange them; only one person to reform him.

It was when Tommy cupped his chin to angle his face towards the light that their eyes met, _really_ met, as if for the first time; and in meeting, became portals; windows to the soul; mediums of living history. They showed an image twice reflected; of two boys with black-rimmed eyes who had never known each other. Two boys who the world had misunderstood, and in its ignorance hated. Two boys who were both searching and hiding behind a scowl. Two boys just a little out of step with normality, whose hostile eyes could not see them for who they would become. It was like having a vision of themselves stare back at them through the eyes of each other. They had both suffered adversity even to reach today, and yet, the only thing it had made them was stronger.

As quick as the moment began it terminated, for the glimpses of our true selves that we permit are ever scarcely more than that. And when it all came down to it, everything only took a moment anyway – the rest of the time was just spent agonizing.

More than friends they would always be. Brothers. Two lives lived the same through different circumstances.

"Perfect," Tommy decreed, stepping back, finally satisfied with his effort.

"Right back atcha, kitty," Adam teased, standing to connect his earpiece and examine his profile in the mirror. His heart fluttering with quiet pride to wear Tommy's skilful design, marvelling at how it caught the radiance of even the dimmest light.

"Ready to rock the world!" he grinned as he crossed the room, slipping an arm around Tommy's small shoulders.

"As I'll ever be!"

They left the room together; hearts, minds, souls already with the crowd.

It was only as the material brushed against the singers bare arms that he took account, for the first time, of what Tommy was really wearing. A thick, heavy, black blazer which he would swelter in under the heat of the stage lights. Always a size larger than his own diminutive frame, always with long sleeves.

Maybe Adam wasn't the only one who harboured insecurities …

* * *

**Thank you very much for reading :)**

**- One Wish Magic.**


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